


the love that dare not speak its name

by liberteas, whitelines



Series: personal faves [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bittersweet, Graduation, M/M, Pining, Rarepair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:24:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liberteas/pseuds/liberteas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitelines/pseuds/whitelines
Summary: Shirabu’s never been good at words, but he writes Ushijima a love letter in every toss to him.





	the love that dare not speak its name

Shirabu’s never been good with words, but if he had to write a love letter to Ushijima, this would be it:

It’s a love written in the beads of condensation that trickle soundlessly down a lonely bottle of Pocari waiting for Ushijima on the bench. Silent, unnoticeable, and absolutely useless, doomed to evaporate and disappear into nothingness once the shrill whistle announces time’s up.

It’s the last competition of their high school career. Ushijima will be scouted into the youth national team in Tokyo after this, and Shirabu will go to university in Sendai. This will be the last time they stand, together, fighting for the same lofty dream in a mere 30’x30’ square drawn on the ground. Shirabu never wants it to end, wants the scoreboard to stop creeping up point by point, wants to watch Ushijima play volleyball forever, wants to toss for him forever.

If he ever attempts to put his feelings into words, it would be written in the way his eyes followed him across the volleyball court, carving out the unmistakable broad set of his shoulders, memorising the level-headed steely-eyed gaze, and admiring the easy grace with which Ushijima carried himself, a lion secure in the knowledge of its unrivalled strength and authority in this playing field.

From the very beginning his love was written in every toss he gave Ushijima, never fancy, never glamorous, unlike those of glitzy gaudy Oikawa from the other team, but basic, meticulous, almost devoid of personality, a product of the years of whittling his own style down to nothing, because his one and only role was to supplement Ushijima’s absolute power.

He remembers, his former classmate from his old school, the school he’d ditched in favour of Shiratorizawa.

“Shirabu, you playing seems a lot......how do I put it, more muted, these days. Look, I’m not saying it’s bad, it’s just _different_,” that person had said. “It’s like it’s not you playing anymore.”

Shirabu’s not offended by it. In fact, he’s almost proud.

Shiratorizawa didn’t need a brilliant setter. They didn’t need a setter with personality, or spunk, or tricks up his sleeve. They only needed a straightforward setter that could give a simple good toss high to their ace, Ushijima, who with his unparalleled height and skill would then slam the ball to the ground in ensured victory.

Rather than say he was content in his own mediocrity, it would be better to say Shirabu understands that he is simply not the kind of material that can be polished to diamond. He’s a mere 175cm, a dwarf amongst the giants in the world of volleyball, where he needs to hit 190 to even get an entrance ticket to the arena.

“Talent is a flower you make bloom,” Oikawa had liked to say, accompanied with the signature flick of his perfectly-styled hair. Shirabu felt that was only half of the equation, to be honest. There was only so much practice could do when you were born half a head shorter than everyone else in this game.

So he settles for the next best thing: being the foundation that supported Ushijima. He practises his tosses, makes them high and easy to hit, simplistic. He forgets how to spike, how to jump, how to fly, because he doesn’t need to know how to. He just has to stay grounded and keep giving Ushijima nice easy tosses, and Ushijima will win the game for them.

Like a god of victory, Ushijima will slam ball after ball into the enemy’s court, and he’ll do it with the same face he wears in maths class. Intensely focused, but not confused or desperate. As if it’s nothing more special than a stroll down the park.

There’s something different about exceptionally talented people, and no, he wasn’t just talking about your regular run-of-the-mill smart classmate with good grades, or that boy from the school next door who got into nationals, or your ridiculously good-looking model friend.

He’s talking about those who have been blessed by both nature and nurture, so exceptional in their field that they’re not even concerned about competition, readily sharing every little tidbit of their study materials or their practice routine without a flinch, the kind of helpful senior that puts public links on facebook to all their nice colour-coded notes and their consolidated diagrams and holds public tutorials for everyone.

They were different in the way they spoke and carried themselves, as if they were aware of their own brilliance, a sort of muted pride that they wore like armour. And Shirabu really admires that, admires the way Ushijima neither suffers from hubris nor demeans himself with the fake kind of self-derisive humility that convinces no one and only makes everyone uncomfortable, (“oh, I’m really bad at this sport,” “oh, no, I’m definitely not as good as you at spiking,” “ah, I can’t really do a proper serve,”) as the people around you scramble to refute you, no, no, you aren’t bad at all, you’re so good at this. No, Ushijima knows his worth, and he walks comfortably in his skin, confidently carrying the weight of the title of the Nation’s Top Ace upon those shoulders, the same shoulders Shirabu might touch in a group huddleright before a match.

Again, he thinks of what‘s written in the beads of condensation that trickle soundlessly down the lonely bottle of Pocari, Ushijima’s favourite after-game refreshment.

Perhaps this will be the last drink he ever buys Ushijima, he‘d thought, as he pays the cashier and takes the ice-cold beverage from her.

Perhaps Ushijima will never be able to translate the noiseless drip of condensation from the plastic bottle to the wooden bench, collecting in a puddle around the rim of the bottom.

That’s fine with Shirabu, because Shirabu will never interpret it for Ushijima. He’ll never tell him, and when the whistle blows for the last time, he’ll stay in Sendai and Ushijima will go to Tokyo, and they’ll never see each other again, everything between them evaporated like water on a wooden bench.

**Author's Note:**

> “The love that dare not speak its name” is a phrase from the last line of the poem "Two Loves" by Lord Alfred Douglas. 
> 
> It is usually interpreted as a euphemism for homosexual love.


End file.
